In the Shadows
by Imaginigma
Summary: [Complete, one shot]A hooded figure, an inn, crisp winter. Can one stand the loneliness, the hurt and devastation he has encountered during his life? Can Aragorn survive when he has changed so much that not even his foster father regocnizes him anymore?
1. Numb

**Title: **In the shadows

**Rating:** K+ 

**Warnings: **Dark thoughts

**Disclaimer: **Alas, they, or rather he, is not mine and never will be. I make no money with this story.

**Summery: **A dark figure sits in an inn, but his thoughts are neither that of a drunk man nor that of a glad man. No, he has different thoughts, thoughts that might very well be his downfall.

**A/N: **I know it is a rather stale idea, but I have not yet written about it and I was in a mood to do so. Please, bear with me and be kind. If you read it, please, tell me what you think of it. _Hannon le._

_­­­­­­This was inspired by a review I got for "Leave all this to yesterday", stating that if I want to write a good one-shot, I should write something that let the story linger in the reader's mind, perhaps stating something that Tolkien has not done. I took the review to heart and this is the result. I hope I have improved._

_Enjoy_

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It has been days since I have slept properly. Ah, what am I thinking. It has been weeks. Every night when I lay down, on the hard ground in the woods, on a blanket, leaves, whatever I have, I feel the weariness of my body, the aches in my back and bones, my eyes are burning, night and day. But sleep evades me. I cannot sleep. At least not for more than an hour. Sometimes two. Then I would wake.

It is not the slow, drowsy reaching that the mind does when one wakes out of a comfortable sleep, filled with pleasant dreams. No, it is a rude wakening, caused by the horrid things I see when I close my eyes. Or I wake from the screams, loud and cruel, sometimes there is harsh laughing, then they plead with me, calling my name, whispering it. I wake from one nightmare into the next.

It has been long since I have sleep long and well, a whole night of sleep is something that I dream of now, during the days and during my nights, when I sit near a fire that should warm me, but that I do not feel, or eat a meal that should strengthen me, but that I cannot taste. My body has long since lost the battle. But the war? No, the war is still raging. Inside.

Stale air drifts to my nose, I smell the putrid smell of ale and sweat. Smoke waves through the room which is filled with drinking and laughing men. I can nearly touch them, so close do they come to me, but I will not do something like that. The thought alone makes me sick. I silently sit in my corner, a cup of warm ale before me, untouched.

A few minutes ago I have filled my pipe, but I will not smoke today, the grisly stench from this room shall not enter my body more than it has already done. No, I don't want to stay here any minute longer than necessary. And still, I do not rise, I sit still and watch. What am I waiting for?

Waiting, it seems I am waiting my whole life for something. Or someone. No, not someone. I will never wait for someone to enter my life again. Too often have a waited, put hopes into my kin, have spent my time waiting for them to do something, to arrive somewhere, to …no, I will not waste my time with them any longer. I am long past this point.

Perhaps I am waiting for someone to look at me, to acknowledge my presence? I nearly laugh at the thought. Oh, they see me. They all know that I am here, that is why they are not looking in this direction, why they turn their backs to this table and that is why there is no raucous laughter at the table that sits next to mine. They know that I am here. And they are afraid.

Oh, they should not be afraid of me. More barking than biting, although, I admit it, when I bite, I will clamp my fangs down hard. No, they have never seen that side from me, have never seen me draw my sharp sword or shoot an arrow from a distance that would make an elf proud. They are afraid of me because the do not know me. Most of them only know my name, and even that is not my true identity.

Strider. Why do I call myself Strider? It is a stupid name, really. Am I striding through this room? Or over the wide plains of Rohan? Am I striding over hills and rivers? I have done all that, and more, a long time ago. I have seen Rohan, and Gondor, the White City, the Golden Hall. But, not anymore. How long has it been that I have used my long strides for good? Or that they have been long?

Another gust of sweat and ale reaches me and I hold my breath until it passes. Oh, I wish I would have the energy to just walk from this room, stride from it, but no. I will not leave yet, my task is not yet completed. So I lean back again, the gust now gone, and draw my dark hood deeper, so that no one sees my weather worn face. Shall they fear me, then they will leave me alone. For now.

Where was I? Yes, striding. I don't know how long it has been since I have last felt my strides the way they used to be. Strong and long, proud and confident. I always seemed to know where I was going, my steps light, my way clear. If I wanted to be I could be as stealthy as any elf, my steps silent as a cat in the night. But now, even a child could hear me coming now. I do not care any longer if someone hears me. What for? To stay alive? For what purpose?

A loud scream reaches my ears, but it is drowned out immediately as the man who had yelled drops back on his chair and lands on his back, his mug of ale still in hand. His friends laugh hard and help him back up, his chest and arms dripping from the liquid. Closing my burning eyes briefly I look away, but I cannot drown out the yells and the laughter of the drunken men. They reach my ears and I shudder. They are disgusting.

Why do all men behave like that when they are drunk? And why do they get drunk in the first place? Does it make them feel better? Does it help against the cold or the hunger that they might feel? Does it make them stronger or faster? I have tried it a few times, I thought it might help me, help me with my problem, the same problem that has brought me here tonight, but it has not helped me. Could not help me. All it did was making me feel worse than before. No, drinking solves no problems, it only creates them.

But that is not why I am not touching my own cup of stale ale, I am just not thirsty and even if I was, ale is not the drink that I would prefer right now. A good wine, old and ripe, blood red and full of flavours, in this cold winter season warmed and with a bit of cinnamon, perhaps some aniseed in it. Yes, I would like that, although, it has been years since I have last drank something like that. Many years.

Why? Because it is something only the elves can make perfectly. A few years ago I have ordered one in an inn south of Gondor, in a small village, but the wine was more like vinegar and it just tasted distasteful, but at least it had been warm. It had been the only comfort the drink had been able to give me. Or the inn, the village, the night…for that matter.

I remember it as if it had been only yesterday that I had been sitting in that inn, it was not very different from this one, although is was smaller and darker, but not as cramped with people as this one is. But it had been as smelling as the one I am currently sitting in, as all inns smell. Do they never open the windows here? Let the clear winter air enter and chase the smell away that seems to have taken residence inside this walls?

A maiden rushes past my table, her eyes never darting in my direction. She knows that I will not order anything more than the ale that I already have. I have been sitting here for quite some times. Always at this table, far back from the door, my hood drawn deep into my face, sometimes smoking, sometimes not. It is almost a ritual.

She has delivered the ale she has been ordered to serve and walks past my corner again, but now her dress shows deep crimson spots. She tries to wipe them away with her hands, muttering. I know she will not succeed, the wine will not be wiped away so easily. It seeps into the fabric, claws at it, makes it cling to the skin. It will begin to dry and leave brighter spots on the clothing. After a few days, if it is not washed, it will start to smell, then stink. Just the same way as blood does. I know what I am talking about. Of all the men in this room, I should know.

I have washed my hands time and again. I have washed them so long and so hard that I have torn my skin, until they were red again. This time, from my own blood. And although they are clean now, or as clean as can be expected under these circumstances, they are still soiled. Every time I look at them I can see the red blood on them. Not black blood, foul blood of orcs or wargs. No, red blood. Human blood. But not mine. Not always.

How many I have killed? I do not know. Many. I have killed them with my sword. Have severed hands from arms, heads from necks. The wounds that I have caused have been deathly. But again, not always. The men that I have killed on the spot are haunting me. The men that I have left alone to die, are tormenting me. Every waking hour, when I am not able to sleep, I see their faces, I hear their screams of pain and the pleas that they uttered before they finally died.

Oh, of course I have not been there when they breathed their last. Mostly I was long gone then, my bloody sword in hand, red warm liquid dripping onto my hands, colouring them. I have not cared then. I have been fighting, there was a war to win. Or a battle? A skirmish? A tavern brawl? Oh, I have killed so many times. Sometimes to save myself, sometimes to safe others. Sometimes, just because I had my sword in hand and my opponent had one too. Did you know that you can see ones fear in his eyes? They are the door to the soul, they say. That is a part of my problem too.

I have not only killed with my sword, I have slaughtered. Rage has driven me, hate has been my ally, fear my companion, duty my commander, willpower my strength. That is another part of my problem, why I am here today, in this starless night in the deepest winter.

Winter. I remember my last winter before I returned to the north. How many I have killed in that winter? Ten, twenty, thirty? More like hundred, but I do not know. My sword had done its work, warmed by the blood it tasted, sustained by it, wanting more and more and more, never satisfied with what it got. But that is not why I remember that winter now. I remember it because of what I have just been thinking about. The fear in ones eyes.

You see, when you fight man to man, or man to orc, or whatever opponent your are facing, it does not matter, you can seen the moment that anger and hate, battle thirst and bloodlust turn into uncertainty, and then fear when you hurt them, when your bloody sword calls for more tribute, and when you answer and feed it. The fear then turns to pain and with the pain comes the panic. You can see it, when the eyes turn wider, when the face gets paler in seconds, when they open their mouths to scream or plead or cry. But if you are good, you won't let them. I have long ago turned into a good fighter. One of the best.

I remember that winter so well because I had broken my right wrist in a fight and had not been able to use my sword in the battles that I fought that winter. I used my bow. And that was even worse.

You see, I am good at archery, trained by the best and talented as well. I can shoot a thin branch from a tree on a windy day from a distance from that other men cannot even distinguish it from the other branches. I am good, and I am not saluting my self by saying that, I am pitying me.

If fighting with a sword in hand, close to your enemy is bad, than killing with your bow is worse. They do not even have the slightest chance. They feel the heat of the arrow, the pain when it hits them, and on my good days that have felt nothing after that. My wrist had been broken, but the bow had nevertheless lain steady in my hand. I am good at suppressing pain, too.

I used to find a small hill, or a high tree. They cannot stop you from where they are, they do not reach you in time to stop the bite of the arrow, if they even see you at all. And you, you stand there alone, bow in hand, arrow on your back or sticking in the earth before you, ready to be used. You pick one of the feathered arrows, notch it, lift the bow, close your eye, take aim and then, then you are bringing out the death. It is you who decides who shall die next, who shall feel the pain that comes so soundlessly, so fast and merciless.

They have no chance to fight it, they do not even know that they will dye the next moment, but I knew. I knew it before they did, before the fear entered their eyes, then the pain, the panic. I know it before they do, because it is I who kills them. I am the death.

I have never shot someone in the back. Never. Sometimes they turned and got hit in the back, but that was never my fault. I have aimed for their heart. Every single arrow that left my bow was meant to kill immediately. How could I know that they would turn? I could not know. I could not.

When you kill with bow and arrow, you do not see your opponent's face, you do not see their eyes, how they widen in pain, how their faces contort in panic, how the light in their eyes ceases to be. They die, yes, by your hand. My hand. Do you want to know why I never shot someone in the back? Because I am a coward.

All this winter I tried to convince myself. I had to do it, I had to kill the enemy, it was my duty, my obligation that I had entered into as I had joined the army of Gondor, my position as Captain deserved nothing less from me. The killing in itself was not the thing a tried to convince me of.

Killing someone from the front, how naïve I had been. Have I really believed what I had been saying to myself all the time? That I gave them a chance? Yes, of course, shoot them from the front and they have the chance to see the arrow that has their name written on it. Surely they will see it and jump to the side. How naïve. I have lied to myself to be able to get going in that winter, but that has not been the only lie that I have told myself. Over and over again. I am good at lying, have I told you that?

The silent conversation at the table besides me becomes louder and parts of the talk reach my ears. They are talking about me, I had know that before. Many people talk about me. These make no difference. From what I can hear they are discussing if I am a thief or a murderer. No, one tells them that I am a ranger from the north. So, I am a thief and murderer and even more for them, all right. Let them think what they want, I do not care. Not anymore.

Who I am? If I just knew. I am a ranger of the north, I am a King in exile. I am a foster brother, a foster son, a friend to someone who I have not seen for years. It has been long since I have worn any of these titles. Who I am at the moment? A difficult question. Maybe I know the answer later. When my task here is solved.

A brother, a son, a friend. Yes, it has been long since I have been home. My home, rather the place where I have lived during my childhood. It was my home then, but I doubt I can call it that any longer. I was someone else then. I have changed.

The name they gave me, Estel, it means hope. Hope for the elves, hope for men, for humanity, for the free people of Middle- Earth, for Middle-Earth itself. But no hope for me. For me, there is only pain. Pain and sorrow and…well, my little problem, you see.

My foster father, he called me Estel, for he saw hope shine in me. All those years I have thought that he saw in my eyes the beginning of a change in the tidings, that I would free the peoples from shadow and darkness. That I would go out into the world, do good and bring hope to all. Maybe he even believed that himself. But now, I know better.

Maybe he wanted to believe it himself, that I would help mankind. I think, in truth, deep down, he wished that I would clean his brother's name, wash it free from the stain it has and eradicate the shame that lingers upon his family. He has loved his brother, I think he still does. I hate myself because I cannot help him in that matter. I am truly sorry.

If anything, I have caused him even more pain. He has never told me, but I have seen it in his eyes. At the beginning, when I turned home from my trips with the rangers, short ones in the beginning, then longer ones, taking weeks, then months, at last years, he stood at the balcony, having sensed my presence the moment I entered his realm.

The last time I visited, he did not wait for me, he had not sensed me. I was too far gone. Gone from the person I had been. I had intended to stay for one or two months. I left my former home after only a week. I had broken his heart, I saw it. I was happy that my foster brothers had not been at home then.

It has not been the wound that I had sustained during my last fight before I came home, it was rather the scars on my body that had frightened him. Or, the indifference, with which I regarded them. By Elbereth, when he asked me how I had sustained the scar on my upper arm, I could not even tell him. There have been so many injuries, I had forgotten. I lied to him, but I know he sensed it. He did not ask any more questions.

I think, he already knew that I would have changed, the life in the woods and in the service of the rangers does that, but I think he had just not realized how much one can change over time. I think, at this last visit, so many years ago, he could almost read my thoughts. Understand the true meaning of why he had not sensed me, why we felt so awkward in each other's presence.

Estel is dead.

He died a long time ago.

How long has it been since I last saw my brothers? Longer even then it has been with my foster father. I shudder at the thought what they might think about me now, sitting here, in this dirty hole that one calls pub, with men that stink like pigs and straw on the ground that seems to glue to ones boots. I do not even want to know why it does that. The thought turns my stomach and I abandon it quickly. Sometimes it is better not to know.

Estel had a future, but I have not. Where shall I turn? Where shall I turn? What shall I do? I have failed my foster father, disappointed him, broken his heart, his hopes. But what makes me wonder is, does he grief because of me, or because of the lost chance to wash his brother's name? I do not know and that adds to my problem.

I think my brothers would not like what they would see, what I have become, what I am now. I can wash my hands as often as I wish, they will stay stained. The blood will cling to them, no matter what I do. No, they would not like what I have become, they would not like me anymore.

The maid walks past my table again, her dress still red from the wine. See, you cannot clean it so easily from the stain that it spots. I know that. But I wish I would not know. My tired eyes follow her form to a table not far from mine and I see how she takes the empty bottles and glasses. A drunken man grabs her and pulls her down to him, wrapping his arms around her slender form, trying to kiss her. She laughs at him and rises easily. I am sure she is used to this. The man calls after her as she leaves, but she does not look back. When she passes my corner her head lifts and our eyes meet. She has known that I have been watching her.

How long has it been since someone has touched me? Really touched me, not dapped at my wounds with rough hands, stitched the cuts in my body or bound the injuries I sustained? It really takes a moment until I realize that I do not remember. I do not remember…

Has it really been this long? And even more, when have I stopped missing it?

I can remember that my brothers used to carry me around in the house when I was younger, they have tucked me in bed, embraced me when I cried, soothed me when I woke from my nightmares. Now, I wake from them without someone by my side. But that is all right, I am used to it by now.

I may remember that my family hugged me to comfort me, or to show me that they cared, that they loved me. But although I still know that, I cannot feel it anymore. The feeling of their care is gone, it has been long since I felt loved. I am not used to being touched anymore, my body has forgotten how that feels. That is part of my problem, too.

It has become late, the men in the inn become more drunk, the voices louder, the stench stronger. It makes me feel dirty just to sit here. Why do they have to be so loud? So…human? Maybe it is because I have grown up with the elves, but I cannot stand all the dirt that fills this room, and I do not only refer to the dust or grime.

Humans, they are my kin. I am a human, a man. But still, they all seem to be so different from me. They are dirty and loud, I like clean and clear things, soft voices, the stillness of the forest early in the morning. They are brute and like animals. I am not that way, I am different. But then I take a look at my hands, my clothing. No, maybe I am not that different from them at all.

At least not at the moment. Oh, I should not lie to myself. I am more like they are than I wish to admit. I look like them, my clothes are dirty as theirs are, my hair is unkempt, my hands dirty, my boots travel worn and muddy. And I probably even smell like them. No, we are not that different at all.

And still, I am different in at least one respect. I am not just another man. I was born to become the King of Gondor. The thought makes me feel even more miserably than I already feel, if that is even possible. Gondor. I have seen Gondor.

The stories tell tales of a white city, built at the side of the mountains. The walls thick and strong, the stones smooth and shining in the sun's light. It is said that Gondor is a strong city, a proud city, the last beacon in the fight against the armies of Mordor, the shield that will hold out the storm that will come.

I have seen Gondor, and it is not like it is told to be.

One day, I shall lead an army against the forces of the dark lord. I am destined to free Middle-Earth. I shall save them all. A heavy burden is it I carry, but I have long since accepted that, the weight has become bearable. Well, at least until the last winter. You remember, the winter I have told about. Since then, things have changed. Again.

Since then, I have started to ask myself if Middle-Earth deserves to be saved. Why should I? What for?

The elves? No, they will leave arda as soon as Sauron throws his shadow over the lands, maybe even earlier. They will flee to the shores of Valinor, leaving us behind, alone and defenceless to face our doom alone. No, they do not need my help.

The dwarves? I have not met many in my life, but those that I have encountered seemed to be able to fight for themselves. They are strong and independent of the other races. Sauron will kill them all, yes, but why should I care?

Humans? All the time I try to find an answer to this question and as I now look around in this inn, I once more come to the conclusion that we do not deserve it to be saved. We are dirty, smelly, greedy, evil. We are thieves, slavers, murderers. We lie, we hurt, we destroy. No, why should we be saved? Give me just one reason. It does not even have to bee a good reason, a just reason, but one reason nevertheless. See, you cannot do that. You see, that is another thing that adds to my current situation.

When even I know no reason why Middle-Earth should be saved, then why am I still here? Why do I sit in this pub, smell the thick air, the ale, the sweat that makes me sick? I want to run from here, to leave this place, this town, this realm…maybe even this arda, I do not know.

But where should I turn once I leave this pub? Back to the rangers that I have left some weeks ago? Shall I go to Gondor or Rohan and again serve my sword and bow? No, I cannot do that, not yet. I know that there will be a time when I will ride to war again, but not yet.

It seems I have lived for tomorrow all my life, but I cannot see tomorrow come right now. And maybe I don't even want to see it. Nothing awaits me in the future save more pain. Why should I want to live another day? Why can I not just lay down, rest my head on the ground, close my eyes and let my mind drift away? I cannot say that I have not tried…

But you see, something keeps me here. I do not yet know what it is, but I hope that I will learn it soon, as I am weary and tired. I need to know the reason, a reason, why I should not just give in and sleep for the rest of my time, why I should save Middle-Earth, if I even can do that. Someday.

It has become even darker outside, it is the middle of the night and the first men start to leave the inn. One of them pushes open the door and steps out into the cold night. Before the wooden door closes again a gust of cold night air rushes in and wipes at my face. I nearly close my eyes, so fresh and clean it feels in comparison to the hot air that fills the room.

Then it is gone, and I feel as if I must choke. Where the air had been old and stale a moment before, it was now as thick as mud, filling my lungs, squeezing them, making me hold my breath for a moment to escape the sickening stench. Then I take a breath, then another and after another moment I cannot taste the smell on my tongue anymore. I have become one with it once more.

I feel like choking often, there are days that I feel as if someone is strangling me, squeezing my strength, my life out of me. Those days are frightening, but every time is keep on breathing, that is all I can do on those days. Breathe. But it becomes harder to do so and I fear the next day that I will feel that way again, because I am not sure if I still have the strength to go on. To keep breathing. Perhaps I will just give in then, I don't know.

Can't they see that they are smothering me? They stand so close sometimes that I feel crushed. They hover over me, holding me so tight as if they are afraid to lose me. Perhaps their fears are true, but it is that which has driven me away from them. Of whom I am talking? All who I know. They were crushing me, muddling with my mind until I had become who they wanted me to be, and loosing myself in the process.

Who I am? That is the problem. That is why I am here tonight, or the many other nights that I have spent in inns such as this. Or under the stars in the forest, alone with the world. Small and insignificant in comparison with Iluvatar´s great creation.

I have become numb.

I have lost myself, if I have ever known who I really am.

Am I Estel? No, he is dead, died a long time ago.

Am I Strider? Perhaps, but sometimes I hate him. Hate him so much that it hurts me.

Am I Aragorn? No, he is just a legend, he does not really exist and I don't know if he will ever be.

Who am I? You see, that is my problem. I have become numb. And I want to feel again.

That is why I sit here, in this inn, with drunken men, with ale that I do not drink, with maiden who I do not care about, with a fire that does not warm me.

I am disappointed with me. I have not felt tonight, not the way I want to feel again. No, I am not like the men who surround me here. In all that they are I can see a part of me, but I am not like them, they are not the company that my heart desires. I have known that, of course, but if I stop trying, I fear that I will be lost, never to be found again.

I sigh silently. It is late, I should go. There is nothing here to hold me any longer. I rise and feel my bones ache with the movement, they do that often lately. Sometimes I think that my body has already surrendered, has done what a small part of my mind does not yet accept.

It is cold outside, so I tighten my dark cloak around my shoulders, shielding my weapons from view. Placing a few coins on my table, I pick up my pack and head for the door. With every step I take I can feel their eyes in my back. I pass the counter and nod curtly to the barman. He is glad that I leave, I can see it in his eyes.

The door handle lies warm in my hand, the next second I stand in the bitter cold night, the wind wiping at my face. I do not need to hear the collective sigh that had floated through the inn as I have left. I know that it was there.

And now, as I feel the clear night air on my face, filling my lungs, I almost instantly wish to be back in the pub, taste the stale air, hear the drunken men laugh. Because although I am not like them and never will be, being alone is not better either.

I draw my hood down into my face and set out into the night.

I will not come back to this place.

**The End.**

**Please**, tell me what you think, I bid of you. **Thank you.**


	2. Darkness

**Title: **In the shadows

Rating: K+ 

**Warnings: **Dark thoughts

**Disclaimer: **Alas, they, or rather he, is not mine and never will be. I make no money with this story.

**Summery: **A dark figure sits in an inn, but his thoughts are neither that of a drunk man nor that of a glad man. No, he has different thoughts, thoughts that might very well be his downfall.

**A/N: **I know it is a rather stale idea, but I have not yet written about it and I was in a mood to do so. Please, bear with me and be kind. If you read it, please, tell me what you think of it. Hannon le.

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**Part 2 "Darkness"**

Every step that I take is another mistake. What am I doing here? Where am I going? And what for? Where does this road take me? I do not know. And I do not mind.

For days I have been travelling. My feet walked over the hard soil of this road, my sword at my side, hidden under my cloak and my bow and quiver securely on my broad back. I walked tall and erect, my strides long and my face turned at the way before me.

Then I felt my feet become weary, my strides smaller, my sword heavier. And then, my face lowered to the ground and I did not lift my head again. It was so heavy. A task for a proud and noble man. Not for me.

Now, as dusk falls, my step falters, my back is hunched and bend and my weapons are so heavy that I wish I could just throw them to the ground. And me with them.

I grow tired of this road I am travelling, of the dusty path that I tread and from which I never stray. Oh, how I wish I could take a step to the side and let my feet touch the fertile grass, the green fauna that grows at the side of the way. But I can't. I have chosen this road and now, now I have to follow the road that lies before me.

I have chosen this road a long time ago and the words of my foster father still echo in my head when he talked about it once. I hear the words and I feel…hurt.

But I have chosen this road that now lies before me, no one else has done this for me and now, now I will have to tread it until I reach its end. My destination. My destiny.

Darkness falls around me and my mind drifts off to better places. I still have my memories; my childhood, my youth, my years as a young soldier and ranger. But they are just thoughts and memories and they will never come back. I have grown out of them, like one would grow out of his clothes.

A strange thought, but, it is fitting. I see that now. Yes, I have grown, but in different ways than other people. I was born as Aragorn, son of Arathorn who was the proud and respected 15th Chieftain of the Dunedain. Then I became Estel Elrondion, loved foster brother and son. I became older and again I became Aragorn, but his cloths would not fit me. So I took a look at them and then discharged them.

They were too big for me at that time.

Instead, I grew to be Strider, Ranger of the North and I felt comfortable with my new attire. It was fitting me and I was content. But then, I once more wanted more and I grew further and became Thorongil, a soldier in Rohan and Gondor.

At first, these clothes would not fit me. They were strange and uncomfortable. They had so many pockets and holes, lacings and restraints. It took me long to see the freedom that these clothes would give me. I was Thorongil, free to do what I wanted and master to my life, despite my duties. It were good clothes, indeed.

But things changed. I changed. And I needed new clothes…again.

Strider again? Yes, but I knew his clothes already and I knew what awaited me. Nevertheless, I wore them and they felt good. Until I took a closer look at them. You know, they are old and worn, patched and stained with the filth of my life. I do not want to wear them anymore.

I have changed again, but this time, there are no new cloths for me to wear. The one that are still available for me are out of my reach. And I fear, they will be for a very long time. You see, how could someone as I, a filthy ranger with nothing to claim his own besides the things he wears on his body, touch something so beautiful, unspoiled and noble?

He cannot.

I stumble. Oh, I am so tired. For days –or has it been years- I have travelled on this road and with every step I take my body hurts more and my mind becomes number. Not from the cold or the rain that assaults me or the snow that hinders my progress, but from the journey itself. It is a long way behind me and an even longer before me.

Absentmindedly I lift my face and gaze at the glimmering stars that appear in the sky. They are so bright and shiny, like droplets of mithril caught in a river of black silk. I gaze at them and I feel my feet stop walking on their own account. I take a deep breath that rushes through my lungs, the frosty air entering my body. Had I been anywhere else, I would have smiled. But I am here and I wont smile.

Once, when I was a child, my foster father told me a story. I was a curious child, you see and I wanted to know everything. Where come the flowers from and the rainbows? Why does it rain and why is snow so cold? Oh, how innocent these questions have been. So different from the ones I ask now.

Elrond had tucked me in bed one night and told me the story of the birth of the stars. I know that it was a fairy tale, nothing more, but the story was nice and I have never forgotten it. I do not know why. Normally, I do not belief I fairy tales anymore. Life is no place for them.

He told me, that there was once a very fair maiden and she fell in love with a noble gentleman. The two loved each other dearly, but before their love could be fulfilled and their lives combined, her beloved died and she was left all alone in the world. Her spirit wailed at the loss and she despaired.

As night settled over her soul, she fell down to her knees and cried bitter tears of loneliness and loss. So shining and beautiful were her tears that the Valar lifted them into the sky and there they stayed, silver tears of liquid mithril. From that day on and for all eternity, the stars watch the fate of arda and shall remind all living beings that nothing that is truly good and pure can last for all eternity. Elrond told me that it was not a sad story, but one of hope.

Hope, because the night does not last forever, as day succeeds it.

Hope, what a fragile word. My burning eyes can see the stars and as I look at them, they water and I want to combine my pain with hers. But I blink and lower my gaze. My hurts are nothing. Only another mistake.

I swallow and move on, one foot in front of the other. Right, left and right again, until my feet know the rhythm and I do not have to command them any longer. They know the way and I will not stop ere…I do not know when I will stop.

The night is cold, so I draw my cloak tighter around my shoulders to shelter me from the harsh wind. My hair is lifted from my head and I know that it is dishevelled. It usually is. But it does not matter, because who will see me? Take a look at me and recognize me? No one. I am only a shadow in the night. It will pass and be no more once the sun awakes. I know that.

Another stone under my foot, and I stumble once more and with the motion, my sword hits my leg and I can feel the weight of the weapon. Breathing deeply, I right myself and put my hand on the hilt to steady the sword. It is a common gesture of someone who knows how to use a sword. I know. I am good at it.

My brothers have taught me how to wield a sword when I was barely old enough to speak the name of it. It was so much fun to practice with them, the sunlight reflecting on the metal blades, the clashing of steel on steel and the feeling of triumph when I bested one of my brothers.

Of course, they let me win. I would never have won against one of the twins. Never. A mere human? I do not think so.

I was an eager child, practicing nearly every day. The older I became, the better I became. I still remember the day I managed the most difficult sword move that I have ever seen. It was such a glorious day. I was happy, smiling and laughing at my brothers' stunned faces. And then, they smiled with me and congratulated me. They encouraged me.

Now, I wish they had not. The weight of my sword is so familiar to me that I sometimes feel lonely without my weapon in hand. The glint of sunlight on the polished steel of the blade, the old and used handle. My sword is my ally, my friend and my family. Were I go, it follows. When I fall, it will not rise again if I do not. It lays perfect in my hand.

And although we are allies and friends and all that, I wish with all my heart and soul that I had never touched it. Had never felt the rush of wind when a blade cuts through the air or felt the sting of cold steel on my skin. It was a fools hope and I know that now.

Alas, youth is wasted on the young and the wisdom of maturity is a heavy burden to carry. Not my only burden, but one of them. The one that maybe is the lightest. Maybe…

The moon shines down from the sky. It is not the full and round moon that illuminates the earth sometimes, but only a half moon, weak and bleary. It looks incomplete and lost, so high in the sky with only the stars for company. The moon has no companion. Sun and Moon will never meet, they are just out of each other's reach. It is a sad thought, but one that feels good with me. It seems I am not the only one who suffers this fate.

Through the darkness I walk, my destination hidden by the lack of light. But deep inside, I doubt that I would see the way had there been light and even when day comes and Arnor lifts the blanket of night, my path would not be revealed to my tired eyes. But I know that. I have known that for a long time.

Oh, how I wish I could rest. My legs hurt from the strain I force them through and my arms are cold and stiff. And my back, oh, he is bent like an old man's. As if a heavy weight would press down on it. I know that if I now turn my head and look, my eyes would not see the weight. But it is there. I feel it every day.

The grass at the side of the dusty road is sprinkled in tiny ice crystals. Winter had reached the lands and the temperature is low. The rivers have frozen and the earth has fallen into a deep sleep. Sleep…that sounds so good.

I eye the dark moss and grass at the road's edge and I know that it would take me only a heartbeat to make my way over to the side, let my weary body sink to the ground until my burning eyes would rest against the chilly earth, closed and unseeing. I would relax then and my mind would fly to warmer places. I would be at peace.

But I will not do that, although I have not slept for days. I fear of not rising again. Not that I would freeze to death in a night like this, no. Only that I think I would not want to rise again. Aye, I fear that side of me. As I fear the side of me that keeps me going one. One body, two minds, it seems.

No, I will walk on through this dark and unholy night, the coldness gripping at me with icy fingers, taking away the warmth and replacing it with numbness. I am caught in this blackness and I do not know when day will come. Does it matter?

For me? I do not think so.

But I have still hope. Sometimes.

Hope, a strange word. My foster father named me hope, but I do not know why. Who's hope am I? Hope…why hope? Why not another name, one with would be a lesser burden, one that I could still use proudly? Why hope? I am no one's hope, and I will never be. No, clinging to hope only prolongs the suffering.

To hope, means to not trust ones own strength and wisdom. Waiting for hope to come and release one from the burdens of the world, is folly. For hope has lost his way, and I fear that he will never find it again. Not in this darkness that has claimed his spirit.

How can he bring hope to the world, when he has lost hope himself?

A fire from darkness may spring, but what is a flicker in the endless void? It will be crushed and extinguished as soon as it first weak light burns. Oh, it would be a candle in a storm, and it would not even have the slightest chance of surviving.

How I know this? Oh, I do not, but I feel it, deep down where one has these kind of feelings. And truly, hope is such a fragile thing, and it was never meant to endure all this. All this hatred, and pain and suffering. Maybe…maybe I have been hope, but that was a long time ago. Now, I am nothing anymore.

It grows colder, and I feel my fingers go numb. But do I care? Or do I mind? No, not really. I have been so numb for such a long time, that this external numbness is not worse than the one inside of me. I feel so…faithless. Yes, faithless…and I know that one day I will not even feel the numbness anymore. And that day, I know, is not that far away.

I sigh, and walk on. Sometimes, I feel caught in this world, that has brought me nothing but pain. Every second I live, everyday I wake up and feel the hurts and confinements of my body, when I know that I have disappointed so many, when I am aware that I have to go on, that the struggle that one might call life is not over yet, then I simply know it. I know that I was not meant for this life.

Why me? It is unfair! Why could I not have been born a normal human? Oh, I know. Everyone who lives through such dark times and has burdens to carry wishes to be someone else. I know that I am pathetic; a coward and an…egoist.

But damn, why can't I be an egoist sometimes? Why can I not simply do what I want? Go where I want? Wear what I want, use my own name without shame and simply…be me? It is so…frustrating. I want to scream and yell and rage, but…ah. No, I do not even have the energy for that. And what would it be good for? Nothing, I know.

I have once heard a phrase, "When you wake up in the morning, grin and bear it". Is that all we can do? Is that all I can do? Grin and bear it? Can I do nothing to stop the hurting of my heart, is there no one there so help me carry my burden, is there not…only one…there for me? Am I all alone out here, hurting and feeling so utterly lost?

Oh, I feel the cold. And I am afraid, that it will swallow me whole one day. And that one day, I will no longer be…me. If I ever was.

Another rock, another stumble. I catch my balance, lift my head, take a deep breath, and…stay where I am. Almost surprised I look at my legs and feet. They…do not move. I do not move. Oh, I feel so tired, and my legs feel so heavy. Weariness descends upon me, and I want nothing more than to simply let myself fall to the ground, and never get up again. Oh, can this pain not stop?

I sigh, and suddenly I feel so old. I have felt it for some time now. I am growing old before my time, my soul is old, and my body, oh, it has been through so much. Broken bones, bleeding wounds, coldness, heat, fever and shivering. How long can a human body survive if the soul is dying?

I close my eyes, and I know that would I be able to, I would cry now. But I cannot, I cannot. Estel was allowed to cry when he was hurt, but Strider is not. No, he is not allowed to cry, as he is not allowed to live. Can they not leave me alone?

It takes a lot of strength to move my legs, but finally, they obey my command, and I move on. For how long, I do not know. How many leagues I will walk tonight, I do not know. Sweet, Eru, I do not even know where I am. Or where I am heading to. But does it matter?

I do not know, but I think it does not matter. For, there is no one waiting for me, and I call no place my home. So, I know that I will never reach my destination…No, it does not matter.

Cold winter air sneaks under my cloak, and I shudder. This night is even colder than the one before this, and I have never become used to the coldness of the lands. Not to mention the coldness of the hearts. The laziness, greediness and dishonesty of men. Ah well, I should not blame men. Has it not been my ancestor who failed them, after all?

I stumble once more, and this time, I cannot catch my fall. I fall and fall and then I crash to the cold ground. Pebbles and stones scratch my face and I feel my numb hands start to bleed. Then, a sob. Why am I sobbing? Am I in pain? No, I am not, this is just a scratch, why…?

Oh, the strength has left my body, and I cannot move, I simply cannot. And not even the thought that I could die out here in the cold can rouse me. I know I have to move, I have to go one; move, breathe, walk,…fight. But, oh, I am so tired. So tired.

Why can I not simply lie here and wait for someone to help me? Why can I not wait for…or beg for…sweet release? Why?

Oh, but I know why. Isildur's heir cannot die on a cold winter's night. Oh no, his death cannot be that simple. No, he has to die a heroic death on the battlefield, or in the clutches of the Dark Lord himself. He has to endure pain and suffering before he is allowed to die. He has to carry the burden and walk the path that was laid before him before he can give in and do what every other man would have done a long time ago. Die. Simply let go and die.

I sigh, and lift my weary head. I do not have the energy to feel angry. I…I want to…go home. I want to go home so badly, I miss them so much. I miss my father and brothers, my family and friends. Oh Valar, I miss them so much. I…miss them. And it hurts so much. It hurts.

But…not yet. Not yet and mayhap not ever. I press my hands against the ground, and climb to my feet. The movement is slow and it pains my back and hands, but then, I stand on my two feet and I look down the path. It is night still, but dawn cannot be far. I will walk until morning, and then, then I will take a break. But I will find no rest, I know that.

My hands bleed from tiny cuts, but that is not new to me; there has hardly been a week without injuries for me. This is my fate, you know. Mine, and that of most humans. Pain and hardship, that is what humans were made for. What they were made to bear.

Oh, sometimes, I felt so angry. But not anymore. Isildur was my ancestor, and yes, he did not destroy the One Ring, and he therewith doomed mankind and all of Middle Earth to eternal darkness. But, it was Isildur!

It was not my fault. I know, I have been taught to take the blame. I have been taught that the same blood flows through my veins, but, why do I have to suffer because of him? I never did anything wrong. It was not my fault. Yes, maybe I have the same blood, and yes, maybe I have the same weakness, but…oh, have I not suffered and paid enough?

Walk easy on my conscious, I will grow through this pain, but not yet. I remember, the last day at home, when it still was my home. My foster father had told me who I truly was, he had looked at me sadly, and then, when I told him that I would go away, he nodded. He simply nodded, and did not even try to argue with me.

I still see it before my eyes. I stood before him the next day, pack on my back, sword at my side. I was afraid, I was terrified to go out into the big world all alone. And the feelings inside of me, all those whispering feelings that I can feel no longer, oh, I was so scared.

But there I stood before him, and all I wanted was for him to hold me close and tell me that I could do nothing wrong, and that I would never fail him. That he would love me no matter what I did, that I was still his Estel. But he did not. He did…not. Never again.

And I, oh, the moment I realized that he was not going to say it, I felt the tears prick at my eyes, and I wanted to cry. But I knew, even back then, that I was no longer allowed to cry. Strider and Aragorn are not allowed to cry.

And so, I stood before him, ready to walk my path, unsure if I would ever return, and do you know what I said to him, what were the last words that I spoke to him before I left? No, how could you…but I remember. And I ever will.

"Lord, I am doing, all I can, to be a better man." (1)

Am I a better man now? No, I do not think so. I feel the cold of my own heart. Feel the numbness of my body and the hole where my hope should be. And that is all I feel.

I have steeled my features and hardened my heart. I am but one man. One man cannot stop the future.

A shimmer on the horizon shows me that dawn is near. Morning will be here soon. That is good, that is good, as my step is unsteady and my body weary beyond words. I will sleep soon. And then, well, then I will wake from my nightmares, and there will be no one there to catch my … tears. I am not allowed to cry, but my unconsciousness does not know that, you see.

I am alone in my pain. But still, I am doing all I can, to be a better man.

And perhaps, one day I can go to a place that I call home. And be only…me.

**End of part two. **

**The End, for now. (Hey do you truly believe I can leave him like that?)**

_(1) Robbie Williams, Better man_


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